Significant Implications
by SaintPellegrino
Summary: It's the little things she does - actually, it's five things that really make Colonel Roy Mustang senses tick. In a good way, especially when they come from his lovely subordinate. Not that he tries to show it or anything. Series of Royai one-shots throughout the manga/Brotherhood timeline
1. Smell

**Senses  
Part I: Smell  
By SP**

A long day at the office can put a strain on anyone. Even the most patient, compassionate people can crack with repeated doses of bad coffee, broken air-conditioning, or even piles of paperwork that never get done. Especially if you're Roy Mustang, who is neither particularly patient or compassionate, as he strolls into work at thirteen minutes past seven. His boots are weakly laced and his hair still smells like last night's bar, but he made it to Eastern Command alive. He doesn't even know why they all still bother coming, since their transfer date is steadily creeping up on them.

Roy muttered a weak "morning" to the three squad members hustling through the stacks of paper on their respective desks. Fuery's reading the documents – newbie mistake, while Warrant Officer Falman glances over them before making a note or two. First Lieutenant Hawkeye merely pulled out each paper and signed a name, more often than not his own, before making progress on the rest of the day's work. Their cups of coffee and Hawkeye's tea are quickly cooling, and yawns are already common this early.

Roy yanked open his door, propping it open to give him the perfect view of his little "worker bees." Fuery commented on the cloudy skies, Falman spouts off about the inaccuracies of the newspaper weather reports, and Hawkeye shoves herself away from her desk, a mug in one hand and papers in the crook of her other arm, and wordlessly places them on his desk. A glance is driven at him, speaking "I'll kick your ass if those aren't done by lunch" between their eyes is all he needs as motivation to get started. _Good morning to you too, Riza._

She moves away, the rough rustle of fabric leaving behind a scent that is too familiar and comforting, and he fingers the mug, teabag noticeably absent and the smell of coffee rising up to greet him. Black, just as he likes it. But contemplating the pros and cons of napping in the break room is all too inviting. He's already dreading this day's work, but not just his cramped hands or aching back does him in. No, that's survivable. Pop a few pills, take a little nap, those things fade with time. What really jabs at him is the full-on siege on his nose when he steps into his dreaded "home away from home."

Sergeant Major Kain Fuery uses enough cologne for the entire squad, and then a little left over. A dab here and there is all that's really needed, which should be included in the military academy's curriculum for "over-exuberant cadets." It sticks to every document Fuery touches, making every officer somewhat gag when receiving something from him. It seems, at times, that the emerging adolescent, who can't even grow facial hair, takes a bath in the overpriced, ghastly musk that is inexplicably popular. He tries too hard to fit in, Mustang wryly notes.

Falman, bless his soul, could do with some of Fuery's… determination, to put it nicely. His inky fingers, wiped on his uniform over and over again, causes him to smell like a spilled ink well. The man means well, but Roy tends to hold his breath when Falman's face, usually streaked from his black hands, pokes around his office door. Vato mentions something about "your face" and "health," and he's gone when Mustang waves his hand toward the door. Low murmurs escape from beyond the doorway and reach his ears, not even trying to listen to his subordinates' hushed whispers about their Colonel. Roy looks up from his papers, stilling the next room to silence. The scratching of pens and a quiet cough from Hawkeye makes the atmosphere almost unnerving.

The wafting of bakery goods and the occasional stench of meat tend to precede and follow Breda, more strongly than usual as he walks in late today. Even though Mustang was late, Breda's normally not, making his arrival with arms full of food more annoying than usual. Hawkeye chastises Heymans, and the three men merely laugh it off. _Doesn't even bother to apologize for his _tardiness, Roy thinks as Breda takes his files from Hawkeye and sits. Roy would call him out on it on any other day, but not when they're so close to leaving. While it's not horrible, there's something to be said about it. It _irks _Mustang to say the least. Including the prevalent question "why didn't he bring me some?" Selfish of Roy? Yes. Inconsiderate of Breda? Also yes. Then again, Roy doubts he could stay awake after taking in copious amounts of serotonin and melatonin after feasting with Breda, least he incur the wrath of _her_.

The comforting stench of smoke that accompanies Havoc's confident gait restored Roy's faith in his subordinates, if not the world in general. Yes, Jean's ashtray scent can fill the entire office. It does, as Havoc regales his buddies with outlandish tales of his escapades in the past twelve hours. Falman and Breda guffaw with him, Fuery's slight nervous laughter makes it seem like he has no idea what "beer pong" is, and Roy can tell that the slight intake of air Hawkeye makes is her way of repressing her amusment, just to get back to work. And yes, Havoc's been lectured too many times to completely remember the dangers of smoking and secondhand smoke, but Roy constantly decides to do nothing about it. What's the point? He needs something to calm him, to bring him back into his body after a seemingly normal, but awfully horrible, single experience at the office.

If that woman wanted him to actually be productive, she could help by not being so damn distracting all the damn time. Roy doesn't hate it, not that much. He just hates how every time she arms herself with a few dozen papers and stands up, he has to mentally steel himself, knowing that she could disarm him in a matter of seconds. Her hair, if he had the opportunity to let it fall from her clip, would tickle his nose with the faint smell of citrus from her shampoo. The smallest touches that they exchange in the days they spend together can make the metallic scent that is so ingrained in her pores from handling her weapons rub off on his hands, bringing thoughts of her to him even when he's just rubbing his nose. It's infuriating. Maddening. Intoxicating, even. But he can't go around sniffing his hands like a delusional homeless man during the work hours. He has a reputation to protect, after all.

Roy always thought of throwing that to the dirt when she entered his office. As she did now, her face drawn into a blank, wooden expression, her bangs falling a bit longer than her usual cut. She'll get a trim any day now.

And she smelled absolutely amazing. As always.

Mustang nearly scowled as she drew nearer to his desk.

_Focus. Pay attention. It's probably not that important, but you should act like it is. _

And yes, she was speaking. Her back was straight, but thumbing through the papers in her arms, going on about some "preparations" and "signatures for transfer" and "apartment leases."

_She smells quite nice. Like laundry. Clean laundry. _

He blinked, willing his pupils to not dilate.

_Damn it._

Hawkeye leaned over his desk now, egged on by Roy's occasional grunts in response to her quiet tone, her bangs sweeping dangerously close to his folded hands. Sure, it's just hair on skin. No big deal. He glanced up at her, but her dark eyes were fixed on the tiny lines on the freshly-inked papers. Business as always.

Calculating the risks and reward, Roy inhaled as deeply as he could without the woman nagging him about his health. He wouldn't mind the nagging, until he was sent home. Away from her.

Her uniform smelled like the remnants of a good ironing and clean linen. Her skin's metallic tang rose up, combining with her hair and a little something else – dog, if he wasn't mistaken.

He felt himself nod when Hawkeye asked him about train ticket prices. But he was truly, honestly, _not _paying any attention to her.

Roy made the mistake of taking another deep breath, completely by accident.

What a horrible slip-up.

His muscles tightened slightly, digging his heels into the floor and lacing his fingers tighter together and his nostrils were bombarded with _her. _

He looked up from beneath his dark fringe.

She was looking back at him, pausing momentarily with the sudden eye contact before rambling on about Central City's taxes. Was that a blush he spotted?

No. Impossible.

First Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye – _his _Riza – doesn't just blush with eye contact with anyone.

But with just that blush from her, it took all of Roy's self-control to not respond to those physical signals. He shifted in his seat to accommodate the growing ball of heat in his stomach that was spreading lower and lower.

He could feel his heart leaping between his ears and his eyes focus on the curve of her jawline, just above her collar, and Roy legitimately _contemplated _shoving that door closed just to slam her onto this battered wooden desk and –

_Stop. Now._

He was not an animal. He was not a caveman, for his hormones to be disarmed simply by the smell surrounding her presence. He was better than that. At least he told himself that.

Women like Hawkeye deserve better. He would _try _to be a gentleman in this office setting, if not in his sick fantasies.

She deserved as much, with her steadfast and willing loyalty, for watching every move he makes, for even caring, if she did that. She was not one of Madame Christmas' girls that wanted to know if the Flame Alchemist was everything people said about them. She couldn't be violently handled like this.

"Colonel? Sir?" Her voice snapped him about of his reverie. Roy would almost lean back in his chair and dismiss her like he would thoughtlessly do so before. It was different this time though. He wanted her to stay. Perhaps for the rest of the day.

Her breath smelled like tea. And lemon. She put lemon juice in her tea.

Oh, she would be the death of him.

It shouldn't be that attractive to any normal man. But it is.

Roy shoved his hormonal urges way down as he fixed a small smile on his face. "That will be all, Lieutenant. Thank you." His inhales became deeper, knowing she would be out of his reach as she crossed through his door.

"Are you quite sure, Colonel? Do you need another mug before you zone out on your paperwork again?" He could practically hear the smirk in her voice, but had no reason to banter back or even look up. Not this time. There'd be no telling if he could stop himself, or if he could get carried away. If he could just bottle the smell of her up and keep it with him until the end of his days, Roy Mustang would be a happy man.

Of course, this would be quite impossible.

He picked up a pen to the side and grabbed a handful of papers from the side of his desk and began signing where a line indicated. "Just continue performing admirably, Hawkeye."

With a sigh (and breathing out the aftertaste of tea and lemon that Roy officially designates as his favorite drink), she turned on her heel and headed back to the other room. A trail of laundry and metal, citrus and a bit of shoe polish follow her out, along with a fragment of Roy's happiness. Hawkeye is in plain sight from his desk, but Roy can't help but to think that she's just out of reach, tortuously teasing him. As if her smell can only belongs to her, and whatever man she spends any time with. But never him.

Mustang raised his now-cold coffee to his lips.

Now all he wants is tea.

* * *

**AN: Hi there. This is my first entry into Royai, and more generally into the FMA fandom. I'm going to continue this with the rest of the four senses, but the updating might be slightly slow, depending on my work & summer schedule. And a special thanks to my beta,** _meelo_, **for doing her magic and making everything I write so much better.**

I hope you enjoyed it, and please review!

Thanks,  
SP


	2. Taste

**Senses  
****Part II: Taste  
By SP**

It's almost sickening how he has this routine down pat night after night. _Déjà Vu _would be Maes' way of putting it, if he had the chance to see the way his old friend has turned out. It's the same shitty little bars that Roy chooses to spend his nights in, with the same peeling wallpaper and wobbly stools and grubby customers. Not that he minds the interior decorating anymore. This began almost as soon as he arrived in Central, and it's only increased with each mission and "accident" and loss and frustration. Everyone has their ways of coping – Mustang's is simply forgetting. There could be worse ways, so no one stops him.

Their faces may change, but it's still the scum of Central that a flipping _Colonel _deigns to clock hour after hour with. At least _they_ wouldn't report his behavior to the higher-ups. It's the pickpockets and the drug addicts, the laborers and the prostitutes, the conmen and the enlisted folk that wish to shed who they are just to cope with _everything, _just like he has to.

Mustang nods to the man behind the bar, and another glass is slid down to his seat. The stools on either side of him are empty, as the crust of the City lets one of its leaders, a man who says he "fights for _everyone,_" drink himself to oblivion. He's known from the cover of the newspapers and his antics as soon as he was transferred, but they don't know how to interact with this god-like man when he's in such a vulnerable state. They can judge but which one of them would really dare to tell him to stop knocking back glasses? They may stand straighter and give him more space when the stars on his shoulders enter these types of bars, but soon these civilians realize that this worried, drained man wants to merely forget, just like the rest of them.

So they let him do it.

He rotates through the same bars on the same streets. He's usually the last person there, if not kicked out by them. He doesn't get loud or rude or violent – Mustang's one of the few people that can nurse the same drink for hours, with the gears in his mind turning and the barkeep eyeing him warily. He just _sits _there most of the time. He might grab a girl that's vainly attempting to snag his brain from his deep and twisted thoughts and let her drag him to the sidewalk where no one will really bother them all that much, but otherwise he'll keep taking in alcohol like it's his job.

Roy's at that point in this night's binging where he doesn't even remember the bar he's in, much less what he did that day. He'll have Hawkeye catch him up in the morning, though the inevitable pounding headache and bad night's sleep might affect even those future events.

Just the thought of his naïve dream (becoming Fuhrer and rebuilding this godforsaken country is already out of reach) makes him raise the shaky glass to his lips. He sips, knowing he'll drink deeper and longer as the hours pass and his thoughts go back to his Lieutenant. Which is what he's exactly trying to avoid. He doesn't want to think about Riza, but the pull is too strong to resist, akin to this whiskey right now. The liquid is golden and bitter, burning his throat as it trickles down. _Just like her, _Roy smiles to himself at the thought. Yes, it might be rude to compare that amazing woman to a mere beverage, or compare her to someone that's so beneath her, but it's the best the slowly-weakening Colonel can do right now. He can imagine he's drinking in her essence, with her tattered edges and haunted past and dim future, since it's as close as he'll get.

Tom – no, Mark – whatever the man's name is, fills up his empty glass, nearly to the brim. Mustang's chipped fingernails trace the scratches and cuts in the wood in front of him, keeping him from complete and utter dissociation from the life he's forced to lead.

Forced is a bad way to put it. _Chose to lead _is better. He wants to fix this weird and fucked-up nation, right? And this is the best way to do it. No, not the drinking and aimless wandering until he comes to a particular lit window and stands in the shadows, praying for the outline of her shadow to appear to make sure she's safe for one more night. However, the hours and paperwork and selflessness and disregard for his personal life will hopefully add up to his naïve, but not completely impossible, dream to protect the ones he loves.

Some bartenders give him something too fruity when he asks for "the strongest thing you have." They look at him funny when he's still standing after they've thrown everything they can at him. Beer is too _common_. Wine should be reserved for two things – the restaurants he can't afford and the people he actually wants to stay sober around. There's not enough burn in rum or tequila or really _anything _for that matter. He needs his hands on something with a little more pain. Something to make Roy ache, to make him discombobulated and shaky, anything better than what's tearing him apart on the inside. Something that will make him feel whole after everything he has to deal with, just as she patches him up time after time.

But when she's not in his shadow, he's almost useless. Just like in the rain, but not the ineffectiveness that he can't fight or lead or feel useful. It's the uselessness that claws at the inner parts of his soul, that lets him know _you need her_ even though he can't have her. It's the uselessness that knows he can never be complete without her.

Hopefully she doesn't feel the same way. That would make two broken people that have no clue how to tinker and fix each other back up.

He knows how to dull the pain well enough since she can't repair him all the time, with the drink in his hand and the tempting broad at his elbow, as his routine calls. The bright blonde tresses (though not as subtle as her hair) and cocoa eyes (though not as dark and enigmatic as her) catch his hesitant attention. He aches for something better, for Hawkeye to warily tiptoe into this grimy bar and march him home, with that small interaction becoming his elixir and ambrosia that is so much better than any bar or streetwalker could provide.

Roy vaguely wonders if they would give him tea with lemon here.

The notion is dismissed as quickly as it comes.

Roy's eyes turn back to the glass in front of him, vainly murmuring and grunting in response to this silly girl's aimless chatter. She looks young enough to still be in school, but the creases in her forehead and subtle caresses on his arm gives the impression that she's wise beyond her eyes, at least in one area of life. He swivels back to her eyes, making the choice to judge her and try to figure out who this girl really is, if she can be part of the routine that's begun to take over his life. Though she can't fill the hole where Riza belongs, this girl that shouldn't be out this late might just be enough to help him pretend that it's actually _her_ that's stroking his thigh, _her_ that wants to go outside and "get to know each other better."

Her eyes are wide. Dark. Haunted. Troubled.

Looking for something better.

Just like Riza's eyes. Just like the half-empty whiskey glass in front of him.

It's good enough for him.

He knows his tab at this shithole is enough already, and that he should've paid before he stumbled over his stool's legs and knocked it to the floor. He knows that he should've asked for her name before he grabbed her hand and led her outside, away from the smoky atmosphere and beneath the neon lights that pound his head mercilessly. He lets his emotions run away from his, as usual.

The girl stops her jabbering long enough to shove his stumbling feet to the alley next to the building the bar houses, letting her mouth from a brief smile before she pins Mustang to the alley, letting her do all the work. He can't bring himself to move his balled-up fists from his sides or unlock his knees. Of course, drinking water and wishing it was his precious whiskey isn't going to get him drunk, or even tide him over until he gets what he wants. So he keeps his eyes open as they drunkenly mesh together, picking out this girl's flaws and failures and every reason why she isn't what he wants.

Her hands are too soft when Roy wants Hawkeye's calloused hands on his face. She reeks of smoke and some sort of alcohol, but he wants Riza's linen and lotion scent overtaking his own. He lets himself fantasize that she tastes of the tea she's addicted to and the cucumbers she had for lunch today, maybe even the toothpaste she owns that she uses and soon as she gets home. But all that leaks into his mouth is practically an ashtray from this girl that shouldn't even be compared to his Lieutenant. It disgusts him. He disgusts himself.

He can't even bring himself to stop her from unbuttoning his uniform and digging her fingers into the waistband of his pants, his self-loathing has reached that point. He goes through the motions that he knows all too well – one hand on the hollow of her hip, the other tracing the line from her jaw to breast – desperately trying to make up for what he can never have. He wishes it was Riza's tongue in his mouth, her fingers fumbling lower and lower, her legs that will be tangled with his in the not-too-distant future.

It's the taste of failure that hurts the most. Doubting that his destiny could ever intertwine or even touch hers. It sucks.

Then, almost as soon as he begins to surrender himself this half-drunken haze, he sees the very person that's supposed to be trapped between him and the wall right now. From the corner of his eye, her small dog, followed by the leash wrapped twice around her hand, comes into view. Roy turns his head, letting the girl from the bar kiss and suckle his neck all she wants, but he won't let his nightly routine continue until he can see his Elizabeth with her hair down about her shoulders and façade off until tomorrow morning. Her stride is quick but her head is down from obvious tiredness. Her blouse is wrinkled and she shivers in the night air, tugging Black Hayate away from going down the same alley Roy himself is currently occupying.

He wished she didn't have to see him like this.

But she does.

That's _their _nightly routine, you see. Not that they've had it written down or spoken of, but it's still their unspoken routine. He goes to bars on the farthest side of town, just by her apartment, while she takes Black Hayate on his walks by those very same bars. They have their own reasons for what they do – Roy needs to forget, Riza needs to clear her head – but they make sure the other is doing okay. No one can stop him, but at least she checks up on him. Her head is always held high, ignoring the catcalls and drunken remarks to see if her Colonel is all right. Make sure he's not dead yet.

Neither one of them is ever really "okay" though. How could they be?

They do it anyway, to keep up the semblance of camaraderie and partnership that they've always had. Roy doesn't want to tip that precarious balance. He knows she's too rigid to even dare, if she wanted to.

So they lock eyes for an eternity, and it takes all of Roy's willpower to not grab her by the hand and tug her to even darker parts of the city where two officers could never be discovered. Where he could trace the lines on her back and face, to touch her arms and legs without feeling guilty, to hear her cry out his name in ecstasy and not her usual exasperation

He doesn't even know what she could be thinking of him now. It's not the first time she's seen him with others, but it's the first time there's another facet in her eyes, one he hasn't seen from her in a while.

Is she almost… envious of the woman pressed up against him?

Nonsense. It's his Lieutenant. She wouldn't.

_But she would_, a tiny, nagging voice persists in the back of his head. _Take a leap of faith and try your luck_. _You want her, don't you?_

That tiny whisper of hope is squashed under Roy's logical, rational heel. _No. She's worried you're going to harm yourself. And you will at this rate. She needs you to stop this spiral._ Roy wants her to leave. Right now. To get out of here and let him forget this frustrating tug at his heart that troubles him whenever the both of them see each other on their nightly routines.

_She's spiraling downward too._

With a final tug on his leash and a whisper of "come, Black Hayate" Riza disappears down the sidewalk almost as quickly as she came, but with her eyebrows drawn together in pensive thought. The dog follows his master almost too obediently, with his paws scraping against the concrete to catch up to her long strides. In his convoluted mind and unclear thinking, Roy pulls himself away from the girl's wandering hands and fingers and lurches out of the alley, solely to watch the retreating back of his First Lieutenant. Maybe, just maybe, he won't have to watch her run away again. Maybe he'll stop himself from running away too.

It seems stupid, really. Watching her go, with the flavor of another woman on his lips as the bitter feeling washes over him. He has no right to want Riza when he could have anyone. But she's in a separate category, the thing that can't be compared to the floozies of yesterday or tonight or tomorrow or ever. She'll be the one that stays with him, not them.

She looks over her shoulder, just briefly, seeing his disheveled and rumpled appearance before she heads to her cold and empty home. He smiles, despite the bleakness of the situation. That look is all he needs, the frown and disappointment and everything that he can guess that is written on her face. Just a few droplets of hope can get him through anything. Looking back means she _cares_.

Suddenly, the bitter taste of failure isn't so bad anymore. He can still pretend the girl that's tugging on his sleeve is Riza. He can imagine it's her hair splayed on the mattress.

But Roy will never, ever know what she really tastes like.

He can't act as if his whiskey is enough.

He staggers back to his apartment on the far side of Central, leaving the girl back on that filthy sidewalk, knowing not a single person could measure up to his Lieutenant. Elizabeth probably even tastes of lemon and toothpaste. Maybe the tea that always has a presence in her desk drawers and pantry.

He knows he can only imagine.

* * *

**AN: Hi there! I'm sorry if you're seeing this chapter again, but I had to take it down and edit a few things that were still bugging me. Thank you to everyone that's read/reviewed/fave'd this so far, you guys are awesome. Hope you enjoyed it and please review!  
**

**Thanks,  
SP**


	3. Sound

**Senses  
****Part III: Sound  
****By SP**

There was the ceiling fan, lazily spinning around to no end. There was also his wall clock, five hours and twenty-seven minutes slow, but still worked all the same. He thinks it was in the office before he moved in, but never really cared enough to fix it. A flickering light just to the right of his desk became an issue after he came in the office that night, though he never cared about it until now. Almost every little thing that interrupted his reverie became an issue now, distracting him from the task at hand.

It wasn't even technically proper office hours and he couldn't focus.

There was just so much to think about, so much to deal with, so many more issues to fix in so little time. He didn't expect his Thursday night to end up with him watching the moon rise, still in his rumpled uniform in his near-bare office. He expected better from Bradley, he expected his informers to give him a hint about the transfers, he expected more from the military. Above all things, he expected more from himself.

If he couldn't protect the people he cared for the most, how could he ever recover from a setback like this? Even more so, how could he even be Furher?

In fact, how could he keep her alive at this point? Sure, she can take care of herself. She can throw anyone off her trail of snooping and investigating and spying. But against a Homunculus… that's a whole different challenge. She's the most logical hostage for them – he's practically given up on all this "sacrifice" bullshit Bradley (or Wrath, Mustang wasn't sure what he should call him anymore) has been whispering of, so Hawkeye has become the priority in his life. _Should've had her as a priority beforehand, so this wouldn't have happened. _He always though he would somehow rescue her one day, as corny as it sounds, or she could get herself out of the bind that they're both trapped in.

But not now. Maybe not ever.  
It was truly strange to him how powerless he was. One of the more powerful men in Central, perhaps in all of Amestris, and he couldn't lift a finger to help his friends. He couldn't trust himself to watch over the people he trusted the most. Even though his back was always covered, he couldn't cover theirs'. Fuery, Breda, Falman, Havoc… even Riza.

He failed them all.

They would find some way to survive. That was hammered into them until it became instinct. Underneath the radar, they would get information and survive. He had no doubt of that. Something always came to him that helped him in the slightest bit.

The trust was gone, though. That total reliance, at least on their side. If they were reunited, they'd cooperate, but there would be tension that no actions or words could really patch up. Even Hawkeye would be like that. His cold, reliable, _wonderful_ Lieutenant was a hostage, and the Flame Alchemist had no firepower to bring her back.

Mustang tipped his chair back, leaning against the edge of his desk. His fidgeting fingers played with the lapels of his collar, the ribbons on his jacket. He was restless, and was too scared to try to get through the papers he'd procrastinated on. There'd only be guilt and the endless stream of "what if's?"

When he was learning alchemy from her father, they made their own codes, passed between dinner trays and shared books, that Berthold practically ignored due to the apparent random jumble of letters and symbols on scraps of paper. All he wanted at that time (besides the obvious alchemical knowledge) was her friendship, since the most prohibited thing would always be the most pursued and desired, particularly any sort of relationship with Elizabeth. It was the same in Ishval, though clandestine meetings and messages posed so much more risk in a warzone than in chilly snowy nights. Their little tricks and secrets would be shared with Mustang's subordinates, to knit them tightly together, to know everything about each other, all to make their operations flow smoothly. But there were always a few words and codes Riza would never employ or teach to the others, and he never pushed it. Roy wanted one little thing to keep for himself about her, no matter how selfish that sounded. That's all he could really have.

He supposed he expected something from her, just a note or a torn piece of a gum wrapper, almost every day since she's been gone. Just… _something _to let him know she's stable, she's okay, she's safe. There were so many trip lines and webs to navigate day after day now that he couldn't risk reaching out to her. Ever.

The more miserable part was that his Lieutenant thought the exact same thing.

He could only watch and wait now, to bide his time 'till it was safe to pursue any course of action, if possible. So he would sit in his office, drowsing in and out of sleep, hearing the echoes of Havoc's coughs and Fuery's radio static of the past creep into his mind, soon to join the recesses of his mind with excited tone of Maes and Riza's laugh when she was _truly_ and _fully _happy, not just her usual sarcastic chortle. _We're all ghosts at the end of the day, _Mustang says to himself with a tinge of a cynical smile at his lips. As if the pervasive silence wasn't enough to drive the spike deeper into his heart. He missed the unremarkable sounds of the day, his personal orchestra for each chess piece that is – was – his. He doesn't even get visitors anymore, so the door doesn't creak in its awful manner of welcoming visitors. Like the way it just did.

_Like the way it just did._

Roy sat up, boots scraping the floor as his hands clenched the armrests of his chair. He was almost positive the building was vacated at this hour, that it was just him and his phantoms that he couldn't ignore or rid himself of.

He knew his hair was a mess, his shirt was wrinkled beyond repair, and his ignition gloves were still tucked inside the bottom-left drawer of his desk, where Hawkeye put them last. He didn't even have a letter opener to poorly arm himself with. However, that didn't stop him from standing up, staggering over to his door, and gently pulling it open with its barely audible groan, knowing that he should be on his way home, he should just go to the nap room, and forget about the person that shouldn't have returned here.

That could be taken care of later.

It seemed as if his fatigue was wiped away when he saw her, cloaked in darkness and shadow, standing by the open window as the moving clouds mostly blocked the moonlight that streamed onto her profile and turtleneck. Her jacket was folded neatly onto the unused desk that was pushed against the wall, and her fingertips barely graced the wood, almost afraid of retracing the memories of months gone by. The clip in Hawkeye's hair glinted in the moonlight, as did her trademark earrings. Roy folded his arms and leaned against the doorframe, letting the simplicity of the moment last until he knew (with their luck) that it would be shattered in only a few minutes.

"The view from this window has never been good." She sounded distant, almost removed from her material body.

"Thank god I never have to look out of it." It's not like she started much of a conversation, so she wouldn't get much of a response.

"The windows in the Furher's office overlook almost all of Central."

"Enjoying your new job, aren't you? Already comparing me to your new superior."

"Don't be so rude, Colonel." Her frank tone was almost music to his ears, a needed sound to remind him of how much he needed her. "They're almost too much. The windows," she reaffirmed. "Too big, too wide." The fall of her shoulders with her sigh portrayed her exasperation. "I like the smaller ones."

"Me too," he admitted. He shoved his hands into his pockets and made his way over to his Queen, leaving the light of his office to the darkness of her old domain, her old kingdom before she was captured. The view from the window was as depressing as she meant it – it overlooked a few rooftops, and then ended in a concrete wall only a few hundred yards away. Like the wall that blocked any real interaction between them.

"How long do you want us to stand in silence, Colonel?" She nudged the toe of her boot against a dusty wastebin. The emptiness was eerie without the takeout boxes and books haphazardly stacked on desks and along the walls when this room was still inhabited.

"I was actually planning on asking you a question, Lieutenant."

"Fire away, then."

A rueful smile appeared on his face. That was what he missed – always challenging him to do better, always expecting more from him. Making him a better man. "How have you been, Hawkeye?"

He knew what she would say – good, well, healthy, decent – but he felt a need for common courtesy that was the foundation for the wall between them. He could only be polite, a typical gentleman to her. That's all he could ever be, and it wasn't nearly enough.

"Fine," Riza says without missing a beat. "And you?"

He pauses, without knowing quite why. Words are everything and all they have between them, since nothing else is acceptable, and they dangle more weight over them than a normal person could ever estimate. "I've been better, I guess."

"Oh," she whispers with a sad smile.

"Yeah." Even _fine _was a hefty word. That nothing was good, nothing to report on. That conditions were survivable, but it was still too risky to conduct reconnaissance. That she would live, but didn't know how many days she had left. He thought _I've been better_ was worse. That he misses the past. He misses Falman's tight-lipped grimaces and Breda's footsteps that shook the penholder on his desk. And most of all, that he misses her, and every single damned thing about her. Which cuts the deepest of them all.

He's grateful for the ensuing quiet. She's not yelling at him or walking away with disappointment etched on her face. It's the things she doesn't say that he relies on the most. This silence is what keeps both of them alive, motivating them to both work for a day that there would be something different, something better than what's fallen in their laps now.

Roy stands near to her now, close enough to reach the clip in her hair and deftly pull it out. He settles for watching the near-indiscernible rise and fall of her shoulders in time with her breathing. This is easy enough. It's when the silence breaks that it gets difficult to say anything that would be good enough.

"Why did you come back?" He meant the words more seriously than they sounded.

Riza turned from the window, completely facing him now. He was never afraid of eye contact – but now he wanted to shy away from her gaze. Though he returned her look with equal intensity, his palms balled up in his pockets to resist touching that face, to not lock the door to his office. They were never safe, not even when she was technically not his subordinate.

Even with the guns in their holsters (and most definitely loaded), this may have been the most vulnerable he has seen her in their entire time together. Not when she showed him her back when Master Berthold died, not when she saw him for the first time in years in Ishval, not when Lust almost killed the both of them. She had freedom then. She had free will. She had choices.

And now she has none. She's blocked in on all sides, like a weak bird desperately attempting to break free from its cage. The circles under her eyes were darker than they used to be, and there was a particular gauntness in her face that wasn't from her natural skeleton. No, this was the look of someone who was haunted.

She was scared, that's what it came down to. And she knew it all too well. Was it because of her fear of Bradley? Or the separation from him?

No. Impossible.

It was apparent she chewed what she would say; the look on her face said it all.

"I… I never left," she finally breathed out.

_Of course you left, you were taken away from me, I was supposed to keep you safe, I promised your father that I would, I couldn't do the one job a dying man left me, I want to take you away from here and never – _

Oh wait.

Of course.

She didn't leave where it mattered, right? It was practically a confession, if he twisted the words around the right way.

Now was not the time to be emotional, Mustang. It's not the time. Man up.

He straightened his back in a futile attempt to regain some control over his body. "You should leave. He could be watching."

Riza – his Riza, in a sense – shook her head in her obnoxiously stoic manner. "The Furher went home tonight. I won't be needed until roughly five hours from now."

"It's that late?" Roy feigned a yawn and peeked a look at his watch. It was that late, but he didn't want this conversation to wrap up quite so quickly. "Then you should still go. You need to sleep."

"The same sentiment applies to you, Colonel," she replied with her perfunctory curtness.

He crossed his arms in front of his chest once more. "I'll sleep when you do. I'll even walk you home."

Even the darkness couldn't shadow the small shake of Riza's head. "Not here. Not now. You know better than to be seen with me."

Roy almost wanted to stamp his foot in a childish tantrum. "It's not like there are monsters hiding in the shadows, Hakweye. You're not a kid anymore."

Her sigh was discreetly audible. "I know." She inconspicuously slid forward. Not too much to be indecent, but enough for an onlooker to tell that there was something unspoken of dangling between the Colonel and his most trusted First Lieutenant. "I just wished some things never changed."

"Me neither."

They were at an impasse, once again. Both knowing there was so much to be spoken of between them, and so much that they weren't allowed to ever think of.

A pale white arm appeared in the gloom, reaching out to him. It was half pleading for some sort of contact she had been starved from, half begging for him to reject the motion entirely and disregard it ever occurred.

He had done the reaching before though. Too many times to count. Now it should be her turn.

Her hand wavered, trembling before his cheek, as if it would set her on fire if she dared to touch him.

She dared, cupping her hand around the crook of his neck, sliding her fingers into the hairs at the back of his neck that brushed the collar of his uniform and her thumb resting just behind his ear. It wasn't quite the romantic gesture he expected, but nonetheless the only comfort he craved at the time being.

The only fire that was started was the one coursing through his veins, imploring and insistent for more contact, more Riza, more of this feeling that he craved for so long. His face turned closer to hers as her other hand grasped the other side of his face, pulling him down to her eye level. He could count the alternating shades of light brown and dark brown in her eyes, and trace the slight ridge above her eyebrow where she split open her skull when she fell down a rotten staircase in the Hawkeye mansion. Her nose brushed against his by the tiniest bit, and her breath smelled like the usual tea – but aged, as if she had it long before the moon rose. If he wanted to, he could even close the few inches between their lips, and forever alter what they've both constructed between themselves for their sanity.

For a brief moment Roy envisioned crushing her against the desk, pinning her arms above her head as he ravished her in the exact manner that a woman such as _her _ought to be properly ravished, with all proprieties and rules and codes disregarded for that one moment they could bear to have together.

But he couldn't bring himself to do it. Out of purely selfish reasons, of course.

He couldn't do anything unless he was sure she wouldn't rebuff him, leaving him stranded and alone and blind without her. So his arms dangled loosely at his sides, well aware she was just as scared as he was. She nudged her forehead against his, forcing him to look at her and drink everything in about her, not just placidly removing himself from the situation.

Her lips moved, soundlessly at first, but then only a few words managed to trickle out. "You know I'll find my way back to you. One day, someday. I will." Riza's short phrases were in a calm tone, more to assure herself than him. "I will find you. I promise."

And he had nothing to say in return.

So the silence prevailed, as it usually did. His arms simply moved to pull her closer to him, wrapping his arms around her lithe figure, just beneath the holsters of her firearms. They were only as close as the bulky material of their uniforms would let them be, but that barely mattered. The military-issue turtleneck felt rough but comfortable in his palms, reveling in the feel of her body against his hands. Roy merely rested his forehead against her shoulder, allowing him this one moment of weakness, just to feel her one last time. Who knew if there would be another time like this?

He could feel her head turning as well, into the hollow where his shoulder became his neck. She breathed deeply, and he resisted doing the same, lest he ruin this one glorious moment.

It seemed like a cruel trick or fate that they fit together so perfectly. The way Riza was tall enough so that the height difference let him fold her tightly into himself, or how his arms easily held her waist close to him. Roy wanted to say so much, and he opened his mouth (though he wasn't sure if he would shoo her away or confess everything that's been held back for years about her) to do exactly so.

As if she knew what was going on behind her back, Riza muttered "I already know, Roy" into the fabric of his collar. Her fingers tightened their grip, going so deep as to pull at the skin underneath.

After a pause of countless moments, Mustang found the strength to speak once more. "Do you?"

This time, he was only met with silence.

But it was in the things that she didn't say that Roy Mustang needed the most.

* * *

**AN: Yeah. Here it is! I'm actually pretty happy with how this turned out, since I'm still not pleased with Part II. Halfway done with this story wheeeee! I have all my school stuff going on now, so I wanted to publish this chapter before my life gets super crazy (with not a lot of time to write). So if ya liked, please R&R, it's super-duper appreciated.**

**Thanks,  
****SP**


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